


a thousand paper cranes

by hoegeta



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Blood, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Romance, This Is Sad, Violence, War, cloud is a normal soldier, im sorry, midgar's in a war with wutai, tifa is a prostitute at the honeybee inn, very sad, was working through a bit of trauma while writing this one LMAO
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoegeta/pseuds/hoegeta
Summary: Cloud’s favorite Honeygirl has eyes the color of blood and a smile that breaks him.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife, Zack Fair/Aerith Gainsborough
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	a thousand paper cranes

**Author's Note:**

> im a writer and i like using my powers for evil so here have an extremely sad and heartbreaking ff7 war au

It was not Zack’s idea, not this time. It was Reno’s, his thirst for the debauchery of nightlife unquenched by the bars and clubs they frequented near the base. The entire drive over here was full of his excited chatter about the famed Wall Market, how whatever happens there stays there, how it’s the pleasure capital of Midgar. Cloud was not amused, nor was he willing to go, and Zack wasn’t either, because what in Wall Market can possibly pleasure him when he has a beautiful girlfriend waiting for him in Sector 5?

“I’ll never need anyone else,” he had gushed, pink tinging his cheeks in a warm flush. “Aerith is the only one for me!”

Cloud cracked a tiny smile, a melancholy ghost on his mouth, as he thought of Zack and all the other soldiers who had to leave lovers behind. The ones who didn’t often frequent Wall Market, for reasons that involve gratification and for other reasons that are a little more heartbreaking.

Reno drags them to the Honeybee Inn, a gaudy looking building drenched in rainbow lights, burning in bright colors in Cloud’s vision. A queue spills out of the entrance and stretches all the way towards the next block, the end of it invisible to Cloud. Apparently, some kind of show is going to happen tonight.

“And I booked us some tickets!” Reno holds up the five strips of paper, one ticket for each of them; Sephiroth and Rude seem disinterested in the entire matter, but they don’t object, follow Reno without much to say. Zack, however, is distraught.

“I’m not going to cheat on Aerith!”

“No one’s telling you to!” Reno fires back.

Reno’s purchasing of the tickets ahead of time, thankfully, saves them the agonizing wait in the line. They’re led into the inn by a fancily-dressed waiter, and slivers of here and there conversations slam into Cloud’s ears at once. Men who’ve been saving up for this night for literal years, men who are starved and nearly frothing at the mouth while waiting for their favorite Honeygirls. Men who are stumbling and drunk and looking to flesh and bone as outlets for their bubbling aggressions. Cloud watches one of those men run down the corridor, chasing a thin, awkward girl in a bee costume, fear woven into her expression.

As soon as he sees them, Cloud does not forget those eyes. Big and watery, round and shaky, piercing into his soul and embedding themselves there as he’s pulled into a dark theater and does nothing to help her. What can he do, anyway? He’s just a soldier.

“Why the fuck did you bring us here, Reno?” His tone is clipped, charred in muted rage. Reno rests his arm around Cloud’s shoulders, bringing him in without a care in the world.

“For the show, Strife! People wait years to get into this show!”

Cloud doesn’t understand what could possibly be so appealing about a show in a whorehouse.

Their booth is big and comfortable, but the ambience of the theater causes a thick bitterness to settle onto Cloud’s tongue. Dark and dreary, faded purple and blue spotlights dancing in waltzes over the cherrywood of the stage and the velvet of the curtains. People settle into their own booths, and many more settle into the rows and rows of seats nearer to the back. Girls in bee costumes sit with their sides molded to their customers, men with sneaky, prodding hands, grabbing what they shouldn’t and cupping where they shouldn’t.

Cloud drops his gaze. He hates it here.

Not soon after the alcohol comes out does the show begin. More girls in bee costumes, twirling sensually about the stage. They move with such precision, such elegance; they must have practiced for months to be so good. The crowd is manic, full of shouting and cheering and whistling, male voices proudly proclaiming just what inappropriate things they’d like to do to some of the performers.

Cloud sighs. People wait years for _this_?

The only one of them who seems to be enjoying this at all is Reno. Zack’s more enticed in the alcohol, and Sephiroth and Rude seemed to be immersed in their own discussion. Cloud sits with his head leaning on his propped hand, tapping his fingers against the table and wondering when this show will end.

“Aye, Cloud, which one’s your favorite?” Reno asks, the lilt in his voice suggestive. Cloud shrugs, sighing deeply.

“I don’t care.”

“Come on! They’re all so beautiful!”

Cloud has eyes; he can agree with that. Every single girl on the stage is beautiful, faces so lovely they belong on billboards and magazine covers. The bee costumes hide next to nothing important, every dip and curve of the girls’ bodies on display for the hungry, hollering men to absorb. It disgusts him, the way the girls are used for no reason other than being a feast for the male eye. There’s one Honeygirl who has much of the audience flocking at her feet. She’s towards the left of the stage, whirling to her own rhythm with such grace he’d think her a professional. Men scream for her, reach for her, even throw their gil at her, and she pays them no mind.

Cloud’s breath hitches in his throat when he meets her eyes.

The first thing he thinks of is blood. The brilliant red of it, the gore of it. The sadness of it, splattered all about his feet, soaking through his clothes in a sickly warm wave. The breathlessness, like his lungs are drowning in it. The screaming. The spirits that weigh heavily on his shoulders, tearing into his soul.

He’s been a soldier for years. The killing is not something he gets used to.

“Ah, I see you’re lookin’ at Tifa!”

Reno’s words bring Cloud back to the surface, and he clears his throat, feeling winded. He wonders why one look at the girl’s eyes brought him that kind of pain.

Tifa. A pretty name. Fitting, because she’s beautiful, so unbearably beautiful it hurts him.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Much to everyone’s dismay, the night did not end with just the show. Reno had more plans for them.

“You guys really thought we’d leave Honeybee Inn without tasting a bit of honey ourselves?!”

“You’re disgusting,” Sephiroth had said plainly, and Cloud agreed wholeheartedly. Zack messed with his smartphone, pressing it to his ear and bursting in relief when he heard Aerith’s muffled voice on the other end.

“Aerith, baby, I love you!”

He’d left the inn then, Sephiroth and Rude hot on his trail. Cloud, unfortunately, was not allowed to leave. Reno held him by the elbow as he spoke to a pale woman dressed in a patterned kimono. Madame M, Reno had called her.

“It’s his first time,” he whispered to her. Cloud immediately felt the burn of a flush reach the tips of his ears. It was in anger and embarrassment both, but mostly anger, bubbling hot under his skin. “I’d like it to be with someone nice!”

“Of course,” Madame M had giggled, half of her face hidden behind her fan. “I know just the girl for him.”

And, against his will, Cloud was dragged and locked into a room with a bed three times the size of the one he has back at the base. Reno’s laughter had drifted and disappeared down the hallway, and Cloud swore to kill him later.

Now, he waits, his thumbs twiddling in his lap. The lights are low, bleeding yellow over the honeycomb design of the wallpaper. The sheets under him are a type of soft he hasn’t felt in years, and he lets his hand glide over it, drinking in the cool, black silk. Anxiety prickles at each and every one of his nerves, rising up his throat like bile. It isn’t because it’s his _first time_. No, he doesn’t plan on engaging in that kind of activity tonight, not in this kind of horrible place.

The anxiety is whirling in his abdomen. It’s because he hates this place, wonders what kind of hour his Honeygirl would have had if he wasn’t given to her. Maybe an hour like that thin, awkward girl with the devastatingly wide eyes.

Maybe he shouldn’t think about it.

He flinches when the door opens, embarrassing for a soldier, really. A Honeygirl walks in, and Cloud’s mouth goes dry when he recognizes who it is.

The girl with the blood eyes, from the show. She stands before him, the curves of her silhouette painted in golden streaks of light. Her gaze, brilliant and red, is narrowed, stuck to him and shredding past his defenses. All pretenses, all the fake charm that he’d seen other Honeygirls outside have, none of that is present.

“Let’s get this over with,” Tifa says, walking towards him. He jerks backwards, holding his palms up as she approaches him.

“N—no! No! I’m not here for that!”

Tifa stops, looking a bit perplexed, the hardness of her expression softening.

“Then what are you here for?”

“I…” Cloud trails off, realizing how ridiculous he’s going to sound. “I, uh—I was forced to come here. By my friend.”

“So, you don’t want to have sex?”

The bluntness of her words brings heat to his cheeks. Quietly, slowly, he shakes his head, and the relief that washes over her face at the action brings a tremor to his heartbeat.

“Okay. Well, we have an hour to kill.”

Tifa gets into the bed, sits on the edge of it a little away from him, and he can’t help but shimmy even further from her, not wanting to breach the barriers of her personal space. He’s sure that not a lot of men are wary of that around her. He looks at her, the way wisps of moonlight play with the dips and hollows of her face, tracing the very edge of her profile. She’s stunning, achingly so, perhaps the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. But there’s something different about her, something odd, something defiant and bold and burning.

Maybe it’s the eyes, the blood of them. The way they remind him of the murder that’s scribed deep into the creases of his hands.

“So, what do you do?”

He’s a bit startled. “Uh, I’m a soldier.”

“For Midgar,” she clarifies. He nods.

The conversation dies just like that, and the silence that overtakes them is crushing. Cloud stares at the velvet carpet, playing with the frayed edge of his sleeve; he doesn’t really own any nice clothes, had to borrow one of Zack’s blazers just for tonight. The fanciness of this attire will never suit him, he thinks.

Tifa stands, walking towards the vanity in the room, picking up one of the perfume bottles on it. She twirls the bottle around, drags her fingers down the indentations in the glass, trying her hardest to busy herself. Cloud looks at the clock; they’ve barely made a dent in their hour. Fifty minutes still remain.

He’s going to fucking kill Reno.

“Uh, you don’t have to stay,” he says, his voice wavering a bit. “We can just, you know—”

“The madam will have my head,” Tifa replies.

Cloud doesn’t argue with her. They’re really stuck in here for the entire hour.

“Then…do you wanna play a game?”

**.**

**.**

**.**

Asking each other meaningless questions in the name of a game seems to be passing the time nicely. Tifa sits in front of him, cross-legged, alert and attentive. He’d started by asking her what her favorite fruit is, and before he could inwardly chastise himself for the dumb question, she’d answered pears. She’d asked him what kind of movies he likes. He’d answered thrillers and romances. She’d snickered, telling him that she didn’t think him the type.

The questions went on, pointless and yet still entertaining, two strangers prodding at each other, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Cloud finds himself submerged in her smile; it’s light and lilting on her lips, the velvet kiss of a rose petal, holding none of the burning defiance and blood from before. Maybe she’s happy for this change of pace, happy to be in the presence of a man who doesn’t want to use her and throw her away.

This thought brings a sourness to Cloud’s tongue, spreading all over his senses. He won’t think about it.

“How long have you been a soldier?” Tifa asks.

“Five years,” Cloud answers. He’d been sixteen then, and the soldiers had burst into his tiny and quiet home, grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him out. They needed every able-bodied man in Midgar, they said. His mom begged them, pleaded them with streams of tears down her cheeks. _He’s just a child_ , she’d cried. _Please, please_.

Cloud committed his first murder not long after that. He doesn’t remember what he did or how it happened; the memory has blurred over time. All he remembers is the coating of blood on his sword, the puddle of it around him, bodies and limbs sprawled about, the shrieking, the splinter of bone and the spilling of entrails. He’d remembered a little girl, caught in the crossfire, looking at him with the same devastatingly wide and watery eyes the Honeygirl from before had.

He began to cry, loud and hard, just like her.

“Cloud?” Tifa asks, pulls him to the surface before he drowns in the sea of thoughts. He shakes his head a bit, realizing it’s his turn to ask her a question.

“What…” He struggles to piece together the words. “What do you dream of?”

Tifa blinks at him, wordlessly telling him that she doesn’t quite get the question.

“What do you wish for?” he asks instead. “Your biggest wish.”

Tifa is quiet, mulling over the question, it seems. She turns towards the right, where a large window is, draped in dark, satin curtains. Moon spills into the room, covers the carpet in a silver pool, bouncing off the red of Tifa’s eyes. She looks outside with inexplicable, horrible longing.

“I…wanna see the sunrise,” she decides. “At the sea.”

Cloud doesn’t get to comment. Tifa glances at the clock, and then, she looks at him.

“It’s midnight,” she tells him. It’s time for him to leave, he realizes. The hour they spent together ends abruptly, and it’s funny, because just minutes before, he’d wanted nothing but for the time to pass. He gets off the bed, and she does as well, standing next to him and patting down the sequins of her honeybee costume.

“Can I…” he begins, feeling the fire lick at his cheeks. “Can I see you again?”

Tifa gives him a smile. It’s warm and lovely, comforting like the golden rays of the sun, like the sunrise she so desperately wishes to see. Tifa’s presence brings him calm and comfort in this terrible, terrible place of sin and loneliness.

“Of course,” she answers.

As he leaves the Honeybee Inn, he thinks of what he longs for, what his greatest wish is.

Maybe it’s to stop being a murderer.

**.**

**.**

**.**


End file.
